


Looking For the One That Turns Them Around

by Bidawee



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 1950s Slang, Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - Greasers, Greasers, Hand Jobs, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Motorcycles, Possibly Unrequited Love, Religious Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-09
Updated: 2018-05-09
Packaged: 2019-05-04 07:27:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14588019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bidawee/pseuds/Bidawee
Summary: Matts grinned, flashing his canines. “Aw c’mon Mitchy, there’s folks far scarier than me out at this time of night. You know I’d never do anything to hurt ya."(marnthews greaser/1950s AU)





	Looking For the One That Turns Them Around

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for potential dubious consent (though the participant is willing to a degree and is weighed down by religious guilt). 1950s slang is used, the translations are in the end notes.
> 
> A big thanks to all my friends on Tumblr who have supported me and helped me keep writing. I look forward to becoming a more active member of the community. Comments are always appreciated and replied to. Ideas for future stories or worldbuilding on current ones are also very much welcome!

He’d left the diner in the time between the last customers being shooed out the door and the cleaning crew getting to work on scrubbing down the counters. His employer looked wary enough, forehead creased and thick bags pulling down his eyes. His salt-and-pepper hair looked dulled in the lampshade, with even the jukebox’s somber tones sucking out the colour.

Mitch couldn’t even muster the energy to bid a proper farewell. He’d dedicated hours upon hours of elbow grease to the kitchen and front of house. Just walking was a chore.

Outside, it was sticky. A gross kind of heat that got under your shirt and clung like a second-skin. Mitch shed his sweater and tied it around his waist, lifting his messenger bag over the opposing shoulder and getting a start on the way home. By then, it’d been dark for some time, seeing a trend of empty parking lots that better resembled tundra than public space.

There was an itch he couldn't scratch at the base of his neck--a terrible feeling of loneliness that clawed at his conscious until he was making paranoid little turns in every direction. He felt watched, and pulled at the cuffs of his shirt as he made his way down one of the main streets. The sidewalk was cracked and splintered under his feet, pebbles scattering in an eerie display of dominance as his sneakers kicked them away.

He heard the motorcycle before he saw it, the engine revving up behind him lacking any subtlety. First believing it was a case of mistaken identity, he picked up the pace hoping they’d get their kick out of spooking him and be on their way. The racket continued to stalk him as made his way down the sidewalk, deliberately paced out so that Mitch was never distant enough to avoid eyeballing it.

“Oi, Mitchy,” a disembodied voice finally made itself known, the tone deep enough to be familiar. Mitch decked his head and started walking faster, pressing his handbag to his chest. The whistles follow suit, throw at Mitch without any hesitancy and purposely loud enough to draw unwanted attention.

It would eventually garner unwanted attention, leaving him no option but to respond. Unsurprisingly, when he looked up he was met with a mess of floppy black hair, the owner of it smirking as he sat on the seat of a motorcycle like a king on his throne. Mitch inwardly groaned, that smug of his look only confirming all of his expectations.

“What’s a pretty thing like you doing out so late at night?” Auston said, finally putting the engine to sleep so that they could converse. He stalled it right next to Mitch.

“Just walking home,” he answered plainly. “I could ask the same about you.”

“Oh please, when else would I be out and about? You though, you don’t look like one to enjoy the nightlife. Out enjoying a slurg, were you?” He leaned forward on the handlebars, the bike momentarily yielding forward at the new weight distribution.

“I had to take a double shift at work, it went later than I expected.” It was opening Matts was looking for, because his face flipped.

“How about I drive you home then?”

Mitch paled. “No thank you.”

Matts grinned, flashing his canines. “Aw c’mon Mitchy, there’s folks far scarier than me out at this time of night. You know I’d never do anything to hurt ‘ya.

“But--”

Matts deadpanned. “Don’t be square.”

“I--don’t know,” he said. He crossed his arms, trying to make himself look as small as possible, as if slinking into the shadows would help his predicament.

“Hey, it’s no sweat. It’ll take us ten minutes tops and I won’t sing to your parents.” He scooted back to pat the seat behind him, which looked barely sizeable enough to fit a stack of paper let alone another human person. There was a big conflict of interests coming into play; he was wary of Matts and rightfully so considering his reputation at school, but at the same time he wasn’t looking at the trash-ridden alleys with anything but contempt. The rats and criminals scurrying about were nothing to scoff at.

His nails scraped the insides of his palms, teeth working away at his bottom lip as he weighed his options. Matts appeared to recognize the self-conflict eating away at Mitch’s insides because he gave a hand, making a come hither motion. The smirk on his face cooled to a smile.

“How do I know it’s-- _that’s_ safe.” Mitch made a show of looking down at the bike, pointing at it in all its rivets and bolts as if to make a case against his personal safety. Matts lounged back, not giving Mitch the time of day.

“Hey, don’t put my bike down. C’mon, get with it.” The hand returned to pat the seat, Matts waking and subsequently revving the engine to make a point. Or maybe relay an ultimatum. The streets were still achingly empty, most flats having plunged into darkness. No pedestrians were going to intervene and that was likely the motivator for him to accept Matts’ courteous offering and cautiously approach the vessel like one would an aggravated animal.

It was a one-person vehicle, or at least was constructed with that in mind. The leather seat looked well loved, the scratches on the body telling more than Matts was likely willing to tell. The awkward positioning meant Mitch was left dawdling beside it, wondering where the hell he was supposed to put his hands and feet. It must have aggravated Matts, because a hand was tugging him forward relentlessly until his hips swung over and his front was pressed to Matts’ back, the only divider being Mitch’s messenger bag.

“Ready to tear ass?” Matts called from over his shoulder.

“No,” Mitch said, the reply coming out more as a groan. He had no idea where to put his hands beyond the creeping speculation brought on by pictures of dollies looping their arms around their lover’s waist. Even in the dead of night that would raise a few eyebrows. Matts wasn’t giving him peace of mind by correcting him either, leaving him to awkwardly place his hands on the edge of the seat and grip for dear life.

The vibrations from the engine rode up his legs and flocked to his arms, further exacerbating his nervousness. It felt dutifully unsafe, with no safety measures to keep him from flying off in another direction. He argued with himself for a split second before reverting to shakily grabbing the sides of Matts’ hips where the leather jacket pulled down to.

The machine jerked to life, taking Mitch’s stomach jumping with it. A yelp clawed itself out of his throat and the forward momentum combined with fear made his arms double over and constrict around Matts’ ribs. His legs squeezed the vessel until his thighs burned. It felt like his lungs were going to lurch right out of his chest and plant themselves on the ground.

Matts took no prisoners, he sped out from the edge of the sidewalk without letting Mitch adjust his placement to ensure he could hold on.

The smell of the motorcycle’s exhaust was the first sense to barrage Mitch’s mind, amplified by the open arms feeling as the wind slapped his face, even from where he was situated behind Matts. The sound of the engine drowned out all other noises.

If they were going the speed limit Mitch wouldn’t have known, his head was pushed in the back of Matts’ neck, trying to conceal the blurring shapes whipping by his vision. There, he could catch a whiff of Auston's sweat alongside the mechanical smell of the leather soaked in the skin of the jacket. From the looks of it, Matts was as relaxed as could be, not burdened by the arms crisscrossing his chest and pressing into his organs. Mitch, on the other hand, felt bile rise in the back of his throat. The seat felt rickety, mirrors not showing enough of the road to have him settle down in his seat.

He wanted to yell at Matts to slow down but it wouldn’t have made a difference anyway--it was too loud to converse. All he could do was sit back and enjoy the ride, to the most of his ability. That meant clinging on as best he could, feeling his ears sting from the wind and his bag thump periodically against his chest when the air got under it.

Soon, the roads generally became more familiar, street lights decking them in imperfect little rows that striped the two of them with blasts of yellow light. At the intersection down by his flat he clutched onto Matts expecting a sharp turn and was left surprised when they sped through.

He leaned his head to the side so that he could rest his chin on Matts’ shoulder. It gave him the perfect vantage point to scream, “uh, Matthews, my place is down there,” into his ear. Instead of hitting the brakes or experiencing any discernible reaction, Matts ran through the next stop sign and continued up the road.

“I know. We’re going to go on a little joyride baby,” Auston yelled back, taking a tight turn that almost sent the both of them skidding off the road. Mitch clung on, waiting until they stopped at a red light to try berating him again.

“Get bent Matthews, I have school tomorrow!” He looked over at the sidewalk, wondering if he had the athletic ability to jump the seat and make a break for it. The mere idea of it made the skin on the back of his neck stand on end--losing a foot was not how he wanted the night to go--so he turned back to glaring at Matthews with every ounce of hatred he could muster.

Of course, Matts looked more optimistic about the suggestion than threatened. “So do I. We can hitch a ride there together.”

“You never go to school, you always sluff homeroom!”

Matts laughed, “We can go out then, have a little fun. You gotta live Mitchy.” His elbow stuck out and hit Mitch in the square of his chest, like all this was funny to him. Mitch couldn’t formulate a response before the bike dipped and in the next minute they were skirting down an underpass.

There, the noise of the engine appeared to be twice as loud. The wind didn’t cushion them as much--having only one direction to blast them with--but it was a forethought that came at the expense of having lights whittle down at his line of sight. Mitch had to squint in order to see ahead; he didn’t know how Matthews was coping with the change without sunglasses on.

Thankfully, they were out without much fanfare, the shape and architecture of the neighborhood changing to a more modest, less design-inclined structure. Not that Mitch’s family lived in the ritz, but it was almost sad seeing the two-story houses become windowless with planks of wood bordering the front porches. The grass wasn’t even maintained, uncut and accompanied by weeds growing through the cracks in the sidewalk.

Matts slowed the bike’s speed almost instantaneously, giving Mitch the opportunity to suck in air without getting a mouth full of bugs. He weaved in and out of the street corners, generally obeying traffic rules and waving down the elderly residents sitting on the curb with a pack of smokes laid out in front of them.

They pulled up to a quaint little pad, a bit downtrodden, but nothing out of the ordinary. There was no car in the open driveway, so Matts pulled all the way up to side door put the bike into park, shaking his hair out; the grease coming off on his fingers. Mitch sat, almost shell-shocked, behind him, body still vibrating because of the ride, watching Matts with overblown pupils greedily taking in the shed’s light.

Matts still wasn’t acknowledging him, kicking away spare machinery parts cluttering the pavement. Mitch cleared his throat.

“I--I have to get home,” he said, bouncing his chin up.

Matts scrunched up his nose, making one of his stupid faces at Mitch. “And how are you going to do that? Pretty sure you don’t want your parents finding out you’ve been hangin’ with a greaser.”

“But I--“

Matts opened the shed door, inviting a steady stream of light to make a rectangular dent in the shade. “Look at it like this, at least if you come back in the morning you can say you were at a friend’s house.” With one hand still attached to the knob, Matts used the other to beckon Mitch inside with an open hand.

“You’re not my friend,” he said, but immediately bit back. He raised a hand to apologize but Matts was already shooting him a devious look that only made the insult stick.

“Sure I’am not, don’t rattle your cage there buddy. If you wanna go home so badly, go ahead and walk,” he said, disappearing inside. Mitch looked over his shoulder, trying to form an assumption of where the hell he was and how he would begin making his way home. None of the streets were familiar, the roads crammed with potholes and many of the light posts out of commission. Walking home was a complete gamble and he’d end up being past curfew regardless of what he went with.

Mind made up, he reluctantly removed himself from the bike, patting his thighs--still stinging from the intense stress he’d put them under--and trailing after Matts.

He passed a room pull of garden supplies and squeezed his way down a narrow hallway that still managed to close in on his shoulders. It brought him to an orange-coloured opening where one figure in particular took up the limelight.

“Mama, I’m home!” Matts was kicking his shoes off on a rubber mat by the door. He didn’t even look back to see if Mitch had followed through on his threat, which made Mitch scowl.

An overwhelming urge to push Matts over was brewing in the back of Mitch’s head, but before he could form a fist to try it a small woman was making her way towards them, wrinkles prominent across her forehead. The resemblance to Matts was immediate and--well Mitch knew that Matts came from an interracial relationship but it was still jarring to see in person. She did look like a nice lady though, for what counted.

“ _Auston Matthews_ ,” she started, voice tense, “it’s past eleven at night, where have you been?” Auston looked to Mitch for backup, who merely shrugged.

He looked back at her, plastering a fake grin on his face. “Picking up my friend Mitchy here. He was out of luck and needed a lift.” The woman, Matthews’ mother, leaned to the side so that she could see Mitch from behind Matts’ stocky form. He flashed a smile out of common courtesy, still brimming with resentment for the man in front of him.

“Well, next time I’d appreciate the notice.” She turned to Mitch. “Are you staying the night? I’m afraid we don’t have a guest bedroom available.” Her face soured at that, and for the first time since his arrival Mitch took in the peeling wallpaper and second-hand furniture; a run-down home.

Matts spoke up before Mitch could duck out. “It’s fine, he’ll come sleep with me. He doesn’t mind, right Mitchy?” Matts looked back at Mitch, the change in position shielding his expression from his mother. A smirk bloomed back on the corners of his mouth but Mitch couldn’t stick his tongue out or react in any way without Matts’ mother seeing.

“N-No, I’m good. I’m good to stay with Matts- I mean, I’m good, with uh--staying. Here.” He gestured between the two of them, playing along with the facade to earn his keep. Matts laughed under his breath, slinging an arm around Mitch’s shoulder.

He shook Mitch for physical purchase. “You’re too polite Mitchy, you can just call me Auston,” Matts-- _Auston_ said. Mitch’s head spun, but he maintained the happy-go-lucky look.

Mama Matthews huffed. “Well alright then, I won’t be a bluenose. Bank’s closed though, you know the rules Auston.” Mitch’s head jerked to the side at the idiom, a vein in his neck likely popping as a sharp pain responded in tune. She dropped the phrase like it was no big deal, like _they_ were no big deal to be seen carted around. He wasn’t even--

 _How many boys had Auston brought home before him,_ he couldn’t help but wonder. How many people would know about this development and use it as further ammo against him, like he didn’t have life hard enough.

“ _Mama_ , don’t embarrass me please,” Auston whined, bringing a hand up to hide his face. “People don’t even say that anymore.”

“You still understand it, don’t you? I’ll not have you shuck me again.” Without waiting for a reply she was back behind the corner, high-waist pants that were two sizes too big trailing behind her. Mitch was left blissfully confused, one shoe still on, as Auston shook his head.

“Ignore her, she always does this. If you want someone with their head on straight, she holds the reins, so don’t disrespect ‘er.” His voice got fierce.

“I won’t.” Mitch put his hands up. The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind--his father would smack him at the indication of him sassing off his mother or any other woman. “Promise.”

“Good.” Auston nodded to himself. “Now c’mon, let’s cool it downstairs.”

They stumbled down the stairs, almost slipping because of a makeshift side rail that wobbled when Mitch tried to grab it. Auston moved with confidence, embracing the darkness of the house’s pit until they reached a rickety white door with holes punched around the knob. Auston opened it forcefully and pulled Mitch inside without a second to waste.

The room, taking into account Auston’s lifestyle, was relatively normal: run-down, klutzy, with laundry all over the place. There was nothing that outright caught Mitch’s attention--it was a standard basement, easy to tune out to if not for the grody radio in the back. Probably the most incriminating piece was the _Rebel Without a Cause_ and cousin _The Wild One_ posters decorating the wall closest the awkwardly placed bed.

The lack of natural light meant the room was almost impossible to navigate through, so Auston had to push Mitch in the direction of the bed. Tripping over laundry, it was easier said than done, and while Auston was able to find and sit on the corner of the thin, scratchy comforter, Mitch remained standing upright.

“Set your stuff down wherever. Sorry it’s such a mess.” Mitch chucked his messenger bag in the corner, letting it skid down the floor and tuck itself under the dresser,

“I thought your room would be more--” he trailed off, ogling the sights.

“More?” Auston prompted.

Mitch touched one of the walls, expecting them to break at the touch. “--I don’t know, beat up, odd ball. But I dig it.”

“Mama wouldn’t let me do anything unreal. You can thank her.”

“Yeah, sure,” Mitch said, sitting a few feet away from Auston to put a reasonable difference between them on the bed. Auston’s eyebrows hiked up, a mischievous expression overcoming his chiseled face. It was lecherous in a way that Mitch couldn’t describe, and he crossed both of his legs and looked away.

“So, what’cha wanna do?” Auston said. “We ‘ave the basement all to ourselves.”

“If it isn’t too much trouble, I would like a change of clothes,” Mitch said, chin tucked into his neck. He’d worked fruitlessly to ensure they would never have a one-on-one encounter as such after the first few incidents, and now, cornered like a rat in a trap, he’d remembered why. Auston was a bit too close, too charismatic and well-intended in his mannerisms. And, as expected, too self-indulgent to bother giving Mitch his wardrobe without testing the limits.

He’d squirrelled away those urges; the terrible filthy desires he’d heard time and time again were from the mouth of Lucifer. And God-that magnetic pull was tantalizing, as much as the freedom of being on a bike. At night. It was wrong, wrong, _wrong_.

“Why’re you sitting so far away? Come closer Mitchy.” Auston slid closer, opting for a grab of the hands that had Mitch jerking away to try and create precious distance, to no avail. Once Auston was close, it was like trying to get gum out of hair. You just had to cut it out.

“I’m real beat man, maybe we can do this tomorrow?” he said, feigning a wide-mouthed yawn. Auston looked primarily unaffected.

“After a ride on a beaut like that? Oh please, you’re not blown. You’re not up for some free love?” Mitch swore his face burned into a beet red colour, the noise leaving his mouth foreign, and not positively. He stuck his left leg out to kick at Auston, scurrying away on his hands and knees.

He shook his head, trying to get the bad taste out of his mouth. “I’m not some dolly or skirt you can just score from, what the hell Matthews!” And yet, his heartbeat went yes, yes, _yes_. So convinced of its desires that it was bypassing common sense and dip diving into insanity.

“C’mere, it’ll be fun.”

Mitch crossed his arms. “Just because you’re fast doesn’t mean I am too.”

“Nah Mitchy, I’m real gone on you,” he said, stroking Mitch’s arm with one finger.

“I’m sure that’s why you make out with every dolly that casts an eyeball.” Having had enough of the conversation, Mitch made to flip on his side and get off the bed. Matts beat him to the punch, steadying him with one arm and pinning Mitch on his back with his weight

“They’re easy, no fun once they’ve beat you off. You play hard to get.”

Mitch shook his head. “I ain’t no sodomite.”

“What, you gonna kiss and tell pretty boy? I’ve seen ‘ya eyeballing me. You’re not fooling no one.” He flushed, smacking away Matts’ wandering hands when they made a start down his chest.

“It’s wrong,” he said, though the voice crack mid-sentence did little to nail his point into the ground. The minute the thoughts of homosexuality licked the edge of his conscious he was bucking up to get away.

Matts scoffed, lacking much conviction. His lips leaned down to graze the underside of Mitch’s chin but at the last second Mitch hit the brakes and jerked himself up.

“It's only wrong if you make it,” he said, breath billowing out across the expanse of Mitch’s skin. He squirmed in place, thinking of an excuse he could spit out and use to run with. His mind was running on blanks, a void of emptiness encapsulating his train of thought. The focal point capturing his attention culminated in a picture of Auston’s visage and the plush face of his lips as they scanned the skin of his throat and dipped lower.

The initial kiss burned him like a crucifix. Mitch tore at the skin of his inside cheek as he let Auston peck at his shoulders, resistance crumbling up like an old newspaper. His lips gaped wide, watching the teeth scrape his cuts and bruises with little hearts popping out of his eyes. It was subduing, in a sense. Definitely made it easier to ignore the hands inching down his waist where it tickled with unbridled curiosity.

Auston looked up after a bit, smug as always. Mitch was ready to throw a random insult when a pair of lips crashed over his, catching him off guard and falling on his back with a loud thump that made the mattress shake. Auston paused momentarily, still kissing, but eyes focused on his peripherals, _watching the door_. To be disturbed now would be not only frustrating but humiliating. Word would get back to Mitch’s parents, his _father_. Probably the religious congregation.

Auston was moving away from his parted lips, focusing on his neck to keep him down, but Mitch’s eyes remained on the door. He couldn’t stop seeing his father walk in and beat him down, break his neck for shaming the family. Every doubt he tucked away was being dug out of the closet by Auston without any concern for Mitch’s well-being and it _should_ have been a turn-off. _Should_ have made him start running at the first crudely written love letter he’d found shoved in his locker. Instead, he was tipping his chin up to give Auston more room to work with, hating himself but loving the external pleasure that came from disobeying his moral sense of right and wrong.

Auston, seemingly noticed that Mitch’s head was turned in the direction of the door, limbs limp, went back to attacking his lips, one hand slipping down and playing with the hem of Mitch’s shirt.

He was distracted by his mouth being occupied that the first touch near his crotch had him shooting upwards, gasping. Auston didn’t make any change to his movements, grinding in with the meat of his palm to leave Mitch sprawling out. His hands were desperately clutching the bunched up sheets for purchase, head hitting the pillow.

“Damn!” Mitch yelled, biting down on his wrist to muffle the shout. “Don’t-”

“Don’t?” Auston said, pulling his hand away. Mitch’s hips chased the feeling, his mind running in the exact opposite direction.

“You can’t--it’s wrong. I’m not queer. I’m not--” Auston was pulling off his notorious white shirt, leather jacket hitting the bedpost and falling off the side. Mitch still found himself looking, morbid curiosity overpowering the repression squeezing his brain.

“What, don’t like being called homophile? Gay? Fairy? Mitchy too much of a Bible boy to get his hands dirty? Ain’t that a bite.”

“Ice it Matthews, just because you’re queer don't mean I am too.” Mitch shoved him, but it wasn’t much of a valiant effort considering how much his hands lingered. He was being presented with a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity with someone who (probably) wouldn’t snitch. The voices inside of his head were in fierce competition to be the loudest, all either protesting or encouraging his lecherous behaviour.

“I think you’re just in denial, babe,” Auston said, slowly. “If you’re mind’s gonna split then at least let me get a kick.” His hand returned, albeit more timidly. Mitch whimpered, but inhabiting his traitorous thoughts made no effort to push him away this time. He didn’t want to admit he was getting hard in his pants at the stimulation, but his prick had a mind of its own.

Auson shucked his hands down his hips, giving him more room to breathe. Unfortunately, it only pronounced his arousal in big capital letters and Auston took the bait with a shark-like grin at hand. Mitch’s hips were making little rabbit thrusts when Auston’s hand slid under the cotton of his boxers, giving Mitch a quick stroke before taking the bull by the horns and pulling him out.

Fuck, it was different with a new set of hands. Matts’ hands were rough at the palms and the fingers were gripping a bit too hard for comfort. But for friction, oh it was perfect. And it was new. His mind was plagued with religious phrases being tossed about, detailing the punishment of walking to hell for sodomy and disgracing yourself in the face of God to please the devil.

He’d be hard-pressed to call Auston anything but a devil at that point in time, which was probably why the pull to give in and smack his head against the headboard was surpassing temptation and leaching into addiction territory. Mitch couldn’t look at his stupidly greased hair with anything but endearment and that should have been the point where he kicked Matts in the groin and made a run for it. He was no wet rag, but this was quickly spiralling out of control.

Like an idiot, he stayed though. He watched Auston’s shoulders hunch up as he scooted closer, bringing his knees on either side of Mitch’s hips so that he was properly straddling him. The pleasure rolling in was just an afterthought, background noise. Radio static. He leaned into the touch when every sermon he’d heard was telling him not to, letting himself share oxygen with the man responsible for his downfall and sinful desire.

Auston’s methods were concise, moving with one goal in mind. He didn’t linger with his strokes or take his time taking in the catch. He had a motivation and was determined to get to it, taking Mitch kicking and screaming with him. Mitch almost felt like he was taking advantage of him and his...willingness. But he was no expert--he’d never touched a man. Never touched _anyone_. Moving would be an inconvenience.

So of course, he did it anyway.

“What do I--” His hand hovered apprehensively. He didn’t know if Auston wanted it on his back, lower down, or out of the way entirely. Auston looked up, sweat plastering a few stray hairs to his forehead.

Auston shook his head, smiling. “You’re unborn, aren’t ya? Am I ‘yer first, Nancy boy?” His voice was rich, thick with arousal that turned his laughs into guttural pants.

Mitch huffed, “Cut the gas, you know I’m not--”

“Gay? I know. Give it,” he said, taking Mitch’s hand and bringing it down, closer to his groin. Mitch looked away when it’d passed his lower abdomen, not wanting to acknowledge what was happening. He thought it would be added to the hands already gripping him fiercely, but instead he felt denim jeans and the cold metal of a belt buckle.

That caught him off-guard--he didn’t wear denim. He dared to look down, straining his next to see Auston pressing his hand to the visible bend in the crotch of his jeans. His face was entirely flushed, looking up at Mitch like he was the cat that got the cream. Auston’s hand fell, leaving Mitch to cup the bulge and _not_ have an internal meltdown.

It was--damn. It was hot against his hands. Hot and pulsing and he wanted to jump away and squeal at how disgusting it was but he was scared doing so would mean Auston would let go of him and he couldn’t have that. Besides, it wasn’t _bad_ per say. Just different. He didn’t know what to do with the information and a cruel part of him was revoking its earlier complaints and begging for Auston’s mother to beat the door down and separate them.

“You gonna take it out?” Auston asked, squeezing Mitch’s base until he groaned. Auston shushed him and returned the hand that had been stroking Mitch to press the one on the crotch down.

“Take it--”

“It’s no fun if it ain’t mutual. Get with it.” Mitch’s fingers curled, whether it was because he was unwilling or just afraid, he didn’t know. His hands steadied around the metal belt buckle, pulling the leather out through the loops before coming to an abrupt halt.

He swallowed audibly. “Matts--I haven’t done this before.”

“Are you writing a book? Just jerk me. You’ll get the hang of it, I’ll clue you.” Auston stared down long enough to erase the remainder of Mitch’s composure. Trembling, he tugged the waistband down, coming face to face with Auston’s boxers which struck an unnerving sense of anticipation inside of him. All the while, Auston’s hand worked him, slowly. He appeared just as captivated by Mitch’s naivety as Mitch himself was.

Mitch’s bottom lip trembled. He could only work up the courage to touch the edge of the boxers’ stitching before he had to shield his eyes, cheeks on fire. Above him, Auston sighed, and through the cracks of his fingers Mitch could see him pull himself out, gently bringing Mitch’s hand back.

“Go from base to tip, y--yeah, like that. Don’t squeeze too hard or you’ll hurt me. You gotta--ah--keep up a rhythm.” Mitch followed his instruction to a tee, regularly looking up to judge Auson’s facial expression. He was still smiling down.

“You’re a natural.” Auston praised, and it should have been an insult. Should have made Mitch revile in horror. That someone like him, who’d never done wrong in his life before meeting Auston Matthews, would have the genetic predisposition to be _that_. It had the opposite effect, made more potent by Auston’s stroking increased in pressure which sent Mitch arching up, shoulders knocked back.

“You’re--ah--just saying that,” he panted, twisting his hand around to get a better grip on Auston’s cock.

There was a cold sweat budding on the back of his neck, the homophobic comments swirling in the midst of his skull cooling in favour of bidding all his attention to the act. A string inside his belly was winding itself together, knotting closer and closer to his lower abdomen.

“Nah Mitchy, you’re good. You’re really good. Just a little more--yeah.” Mitch increased the speed, ducking his head down in between the gap of Auston’s shoulder and chin to nip at the skin there and steady himself. Their bodies moved closer together, the heat ensnaring them in a bubble of pants and groans. He didn’t know how much longer he could hold off, but it felt like the expectation would be to come together.

Auston made an almost violent jerk of his hand that had Mitch spastically kicking out, trying to regain his balance. Auston didn’t let him, he forced his weight down and pressed his lips to Mitch’s once more, grabbing both of them at once and giving a tiny squeeze. Mitch moaned into his mouth, hand stuck in place by Auston’s holding it down, forcing him to jerk both of them off.

 _Fuck_ , if it wasn’t everything he wanted and more. The overwhelming emotions were making early tears bud in his eyes, the overstimulation taking him higher and higher until that knot in his belly snapped and he could only groan out a quick warning before he reached the climatic end. It pulled him kicking and screaming underwater for a brief second as his mind was barraged with chemicals that made his toes curl. Auston wasn’t far behind, biting down on Mitch’s shoulder and giving them a few extra pumps that resulted in Mitch mewling out loud.

Auston let go of him to finish himself off, grunting from where he was straddling Mitch as he watched him suck down deep breaths, shirt fabric damp from a mixture of his sweat and release. Auston followed suit, a tiny hiss the only indicator before he was striping Mitch’s torso in a sticky spurt that had him heaving.

“Fucking wow, Mitchy. How’d that feel?”

“‘m beat,” Mitch mumbled, his eyelids tugging themselves down as he made himself comfortable, spreading out like a starfish.

“Feel good with an extra pair of hands, ain’t it? Told ya. You catch some z’s, I’m gonna clean up.” The bed dipped and then folded back into position.

“M’kay,” Mitch said, voice lagging.

There were probably worse things that running and jacking off with a greaser and Mitch liked to think he would still be redeemed for not doing those things. Either way, it was the committing thought that sent him spiralling down into nothingness, the room splitting into little black squares as his eyelids clamped shut.

He didn't like to believe that Auston was doing this on a bet, that it was some game he and his friends played in the schoolyard, but it was better than admitting he'd felt _something_. It made shrugging the arm that fell over his chest much easier too.

**Author's Note:**

> Bank's closed: no kissing or sexual activity  
> Bluenose: someone that sticks their nose in another's business  
> Cast an eyeball: to look  
> Cut the gas: shut up  
> Dolly: cute girl  
> Get bent!: disparaging remark as in "drop dead"  
> Pad: home; an apartment  
> Pile up Z's: get some sleep  
> Put down: to say bad things about someone  
> Rattle your cage: get upset  
> Shuck: trick or blow off  
> Sing: to tattle or inform on someone  
> Sluff: to cut classes  
> Slurg: a milkshake  
> Square: a regular, normal person. A conformist  
> Unborn: someone that knows nothing  
> Wet rag: someone who's just no fun; unpopular
> 
> Come talk to me or give me new ideas at @cursivecherrypicking on tumblr.


End file.
